Too Good to Be True

“You’re right,” I said.

“What are you having for dinner?” my friend asked.

“Risotto, asparagus and tilapia. Some delicious tart my sister slaved over.”

“I’ll send some back with Grace!” Natalie called.

“Make sure I get that tart,” Julian said. “I’ve earned it. Shall we chat some more? Want me to propose?”

“No, no, honey, that’s fine. You have a great night,” I said.

“Love you,” Julian said. “Now say it back to me.”

“Oh, um, same here.” My face grew hot—I was not about to declare my love for an imaginary boyfriend. Even I wouldn’t go that far. Then I flipped the phone closed and sighed. “Well, he can’t make it. The surgery was more complicated than he thought, and he wants to stay close until the little guy’s out of the woods.”

“Ooh,” Natalie sighed, her face morphing into something like adoration. “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry he can’t come, but God, he sounds so wonderful!”

“He is,” I said. “He really is.”

After dinner, Natalie walked me to my spot in the parking garage. “Well, I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet Wyatt,” she said. “But it was great to have you here.” Her voice echoed in the vast cement chamber.

“Thanks,” I said, unlocking the car. I put the Tupperware containing Julian’s generous slab of tart on the backseat and turned back to my sister. “So things are really serious with you and Andrew?”

She hesitated. “Yes. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to have a fling, Nat,” I replied a bit sharply. “I mean, that would’ve hurt, you know? I just …I’m glad. This is good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am.”

She smiled, that serene, blissful smile of hers. “Thanks. You know, I have to thank Wyatt when I do finally meet him. To tell you the truth, I think I would’ve broken up with Andrew if you hadn’t been seeing someone. It just felt too wrong, you know?”

“Mmm,” I said. “Well. I…I should go. Bye, Nattie. Thanks for a lovely dinner.”

Rain came down in sheets as I drove home, my little car’s wipers valiantly battling for visibility. It was a vicious night, colder than normal, windy and wild, much like the night my tire blew out. The night I first met Wyatt Dunn. I snorted at the thought.

I imagined, for one deeply satisfying second, that I’d kept my mouth shut in the bathroom at Kitty’s wedding. That I’d let the guilt work its magic and admitted, yes, it was wrong, a woman shouldn’t date a man who was once promised to her sister. Andrew would have been out of my life forever, and I wouldn’t have to see his eyes light on Natalie’s face with that expression of gratitude and wonder—an expression I can tell you quite honestly I never saw before. No, when Andrew had looked at me, there was affection, humor, respect and comfort. All good things, but no kablammy. I had loved him. He hadn’t loved me back the same way.

Despite Margaret’s sleeping presence in the guest room when I came home, and though Angus did his best to tell me that I was the most wonderful creature on God’s green earth, the house felt empty. If only I did have that nice doctor boyfriend to call. If only he was on his way home to me now. I’d hand him a glass of wine and rub his shoulders, and he’d smile up gratefully. Maybe we’d cuddle on the couch there, then head up to bed. Angus wouldn’t so much as nip Wyatt Dunn, because Angus, in this fantasy anyway, was an excellent judge of character and just adored Wyatt.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face and grimaced over my hair, then found myself wondering if the attic needed, well, a little visit. Yes. Sure it did. It was quite wet out, after all, though the hard rain had stopped around Hartford and it was just kind of foggy and damp now. Surely Callahan O’ Shea wouldn’t be out on his roof. This was simple homeownership…perhaps a window was open up there. It might rain again later. You never knew.

Callahan O’ Shea was out there. Good for you, Cal, I thought. Not the type to let a little New England weather stop him from doing his thing.

He must’ve missed the outdoors in prison. Granted, he’d been in a Club Fed, apparently, but when I pictured him, he was in an orange jumpsuit or black-and-white stripes, in a cell with bars and a metal cot. (There just weren’t enough movies featuring Club Feds, and so the one in my imagination was identical to the prison in The Shawshank Redemption.) For one second, I imagined what it would be like to be down there with Callahan O’ Shea, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, and the image was so powerful that I could feel the thud of his heartbeat under my hand, his fingers playing in my hair. Occasionally, one of us would murmur something to the other, but mostly, we’d just be still.

“Don’t waste your time,” I whispered sagely to myself. “Even without the prison record, he’s not your type.”

Besides, my irritating little voice told me, he doesn’t even like you. Add to that the roiling discomfort I felt around the large, muscular man next door…no. I wanted comfort, security, stability. Not bristling tension and sex appeal.

No matter how good it looked from here.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“GRACE?”

Angus growled fiercely then bounded off to attack a moth. I looked up from the pansies I was potting on the back patio. It was Sunday morning, and Callahan O’ Shea was back, standing in the kitchen at the sliding glass door.

He’d gotten right to work this morning; Margaret was off for a run (she ran marathons, so there was no telling when she’d be back) so apparently Cal had no reason to hang around and flirt.

“I need to move the bookcase in front of the window. Do you want to move your little…things?”

“Sure,” I said, getting up and brushing off my hands.

My “things” were mostly DVDs and collectibles. Wordlessly, I placed the items on the couch…a tobacco tin from the 1880s, a tiny cannon, a porcelain figure of Scarlett O’ Hara in her green velvet curtain dress and a framed Confederate dollar.

“I guess you like the Civil War,” he commented as he glanced at the movie cases. Glory, Cold Mountain, The Red Badge of Courage, Shenandoah, North and South, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Gods and Generals, Gettysburg, and the Ken Burns documentary, special edition DVD, a Christmas gift from Natalie.

“I’m a history teacher,” I said.

“Right. That explains it,” he said, looking more closely at the movies. “Gone With the Wind’s never been opened.

You have more than one copy?”

“Oh, that. My mom gave this to me, but I always thought I should see it on the big screen first, you know? Give the movie its due.”

“So you’ve never seen it?”

“No. I’ve read the book fourteen times, though. Have you?”

“I’ve seen the movie.” He smiled a little.

“On the big screen?”

“Nope. On TV.”

“That doesn’t count,” I said.

“I see.” He smiled a little, and my stomach tightened. We moved the bookcase. He picked up his saw and waited for me to move out of the way. I didn’t.

“So, Cal…why did you embezzle a million dollars?” I asked.

“One point six million,” he said, plugging the saw in. “Why does anyone steal anything?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Why did you?”

He looked at me with those dark blue eyes, weighing his answer. I waited, too. There was something in his face that told a story, and I wanted to hear it. He was sizing me up, wondering what to tell me, how to say it. I waited.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” The front door banged open. Margaret stood there, sweaty and flushed and gorgeous.

“Bad news, campers. Mom’s on her way. I saw her car at Lala’s Bakery. Hurry. I almost set a world record getting here before she did.”

My sister and I bolted for the cellar. “Callahan, give us some help!” Margs ordered.

“What’s wrong?” Cal asked, following us. At the foot of the cellar stairs, he stumbled to a halt. “Oh, my God.” He looked slowly around.

My cellar was the sculpture repository. Mom, alas, was generous with her art, and so my cellar was littered with glass girl parts.

“I love it here,” Callahan said distantly.

“Hush, you. Grab some sculptures and get upstairs. No time for chitchat,” Margaret ordered. “Our mom will have a fit if she knows Grace hides her stuff. I speak from experience.” Grabbing The Home of Life (a uterus) and Nest #12 (ovary), my sister ran lightly back upstairs.

“Do you rent this place out?” Callahan asked.

“Stop,” I said, unable to suppress a grin. “Just bring that upstairs and put it on a shelf or something. Make it look like it belongs.” I shoved Breast in Blue into his hands. It was heavy—I should’ve warned him, and for a second, he bobbled the breast, and I grabbed for it, and so did he, and the end result was that we both were sort of holding it, our hands overlapping as we both supported the sculpture. I looked up into his eyes, and he smiled.

Kablammy.

My knees practically buckled. He smelled like wood and soap and coffee, and his hands were big and warm, and God, the way those blue eyes slanted down, the heat from his body beckoning me to lean in over Breast in Blue and just…you know…just…Really, who cared if he was an ex-con? Stealing, shmealing. Though I was distantly aware that I should probably change my expression from unadulterated lust to something more along the lines of cheerful neighbor, I was paralyzed.

A car horn sounded. Upstairs, Angus burst into a tinny thunderstorm of barking, hurling his body against the front door, from the thumping sound of it.

“Hurry up down there!” Margaret barked. “You know what she’s like!”

The spell was broken. Cal took the sculpture, grabbed another one and went upstairs. I did the same, still blushing.

I shoved Hidden Treasure onto the bookcase and lay Portal in Green on the coffee table, where it splayed most obscenely.

“Hello, there!” Mom called from the porch. “Angus, down. Down. Quiet, honey. No. Stop. Quiet, dear. No barking.”

I picked up my dog and opened the door, my heart still thumping. “Hi, Mom! What brings you here?”

“I have pastries!” she chirped. “Hello, Angus! Who’s a sweet baby? Hi, Margaret, honey. Stuart said we’d find you here. And oh, hello. Who are you?”

I glanced back. Cal stood in the kitchen doorway. “Mom, this is my neighbor, Callahan O’ Shea. Callahan, my mother, the renowned sculptor, Nancy Emerson.”

“A pleasure. I’m a big fan of your work.” Cal shook my mother’s hand, and Mom turned a questioning gaze on me.

“Dad hired him to put in some new windows,” I explained.

“I see,” said Mom suspiciously.

“I need to run next door and then head to the hardware store, Grace. Anything you need?” Cal said, turning to me.

I need to be kissed. “Um, nope. Not that I can think of,” I said, blushing yet again.

“See you later, then. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Emerson.” The three of us watched as he went out the front door.

Mom snapped out of it first. “Well. Margaret, we need to talk. Come on, girls. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Oh, Grace, this shouldn’t go here! It’s not funny. This is serious artwork, honey.”

Callahan O’ Shea had placed Breast in Blue in my fruit bowl amid the oranges and pears. I grinned. Margaret snorted with laughter and opened the pastry bag. “Oh, goody. Poppy seed rolls. Want one, Grace?”

“Sit, girls. Margaret. What’s this about you leaving Stuart, for heaven’s sake?”

I sighed. Mom wasn’t here to see me. I was her trouble-free daughter. Growing up, Margaret had been (and proudly still was) the drama queen, full of adolescent rebellion, collegiate certainty, academic excellence and a gift for confrontation. Natalie, of course, was the golden one from the moment of her birth and since her brush with death, her every feat had been viewed as miraculous.

So far, the only exceptional thing that had happened to me was my breakup with Andrew. Sure, my parents loved me, though they viewed becoming a teacher as a bit of an easy route. (“Those who can, do,” Dad had said when I announced I’d forgo law school and get a master’s in American History with the hope of becoming a teacher.

“And those who can’t, teach.”) My summers off were treated as an affront to those who “really worked.” The fact that I slaved endlessly during the school year—tutoring and correcting and designing lesson plans, staying well past school hours to meet with students in my office, coaching the debate team, going to school events, chaperoning dances and field trips, boning up on new developments in teaching and handling the sensitive parents, all of whom expected their children to excel in every way—was viewed as irrelevant when compared with all of my delicious vacation time.

Mom sat back in her chair and eyed her eldest child. “So? Spit it out, Margaret!”

“I haven’t left him completely,” Margaret said, taking a huge bite of pastry. “I’m just…lurking here.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous,” Mom huffed. “Your father and I certainly have our problems. You don’t see me running off to Aunt Mavis’s house, do you?”

“That’s because Aunt Mavis is such a pain in the ass,” Margaret countered. “Grace is barely even half of the pain that Mavis is, right, Gracie?”